


i put my high heels on so i'm closer to god

by marriedtheghost



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Crossdressing, Frottage, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 11:26:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1686668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marriedtheghost/pseuds/marriedtheghost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>at one point in this fic Nick says, "If you like my thighs so much why don't you fuck them?" and that's pretty much the best summary you're going to get.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i put my high heels on so i'm closer to god

**Author's Note:**

> i posted this on tumblr days ago and there's no plot to it other than NICK GRIMSHAW IN HEELS WITH HIS THIGHS entirely thanks to [this picture](http://31.media.tumblr.com/e2456c50c12219c5a66db2718bbe5d4e/tumblr_n5qyu9ZMSm1rmhvboo1_1280.jpg). big thanks also in no small part to stephanie, for yelling at me to write thigh fucking in the first place, to kari, for listening to me bitch how long it was taking me to write, and to rosa, for looking it over and assuring me it didn't deserve to be binned off.

"What d'you think?" Nick asks, practically purrs, right next to Harry's ear. A bit of wine sloshes over the rim of Harry's glass when he lurches into Nick's chest, eyebrows up. He looks a bit wide-eyed and lost, but Nick knows better.

"About...?"

Harry's not the best at playing obtuse, but Nick half-turns anyway and pops a heel, showing off the distinctly red bottom and, with any luck, the magnificent shape of his calves. They’re especially magnificent tonight, in six inch Louboutins, and he’d really like to show them off.

“You up for it, baby?” Harry’s Adam’s Apple bobs when he swallows and Nick knocks his hip into Harry’s, grinning. Definitely up for it, then.

“Well up for it,” he confirms, with eagerness so thinly veiled that even Pixie sees through it, and Nick’s not too nice to say that sometimes Pix doesn’t have to play at obtuse. Not very observant, that Pix, but she peels off into laughter with the rest of them while Harry goes an endearing shade of pink.

Nick strikes a pose, throwing out one fishnet-covered leg and lifting the edge of his leather miniskirt with dainty fingertips like a Victorian mistress showing off an enticing ankle. Harry plays the part of an enticed Victorian scoundrel very well and practically glues himself to Nick’s side until he saunters away - actually, really saunters, in real life, as a real person, because goddamned if he’s going to suffer a stiletto and not make the rounds in full Diva glory.

The heels have to come off before Nick’s ankles splinter into tiny pieces and leave him no outlet to show off his two best features, but he keeps the skirt and fishnets because the breeze is quite nice as always, and maybe just a bit because Harry’s practically drooled himself a puddle large enough to paddle in. It’s nice. Nick hardly has to fish before Harry pays him a compliment or looks him up and down from across the room, nursing his own bottle of red and tuning out Collette so often she has to resort to snapping her nails in front of his face. It just makes her laugh, though, which — _wanker_ , if that had been Nick he’d have gotten a smack.

The party thins until the four that are left announce that they’re going to sleep at his, which is alright, he gathers blankets and pillows from the airing cupboard and leaves them in a pile on one of the sofas for them to sort out themselves, because he’s still a bit tipsy and tired and can’t really be arsed to pass them out. 

Plus the fishnets are itching his thighs a bit, so he skins out of them in the middle of the hall and is half shimmied out of the skirt by the time he hits his doorway and sees Harry, nose practically buried in his phone.

“Well, hello,” Nick says, kicking the skirt away and not missing the way Harry’s eyes track its trajectory across the room. “Thought you’d left me already.”

Harry had disappeared nearly a half hour ago and Nick chalked it up to too much wine and bad manners — he hadn’t even bloody said goodbye or given Nick a goodbye snog — but it seems Harry had absolutely zero intent on leaving, which is just as well, since Nick actually likes when he stays. More than when he doesn’t.

“No,” Harry says, tossing his phone away. “Had other plans.”

“Oh?” Nick almost laughs; Harry’s funny when he goes all serious and seduction-y on him, and everything’s a bit funnier after a lot of wine and loud music. 

Harry is extra handsy, grabbing at Nick’s hips and squeezing his arse, which actually does make him laugh, caught off guard and forced to swallow it back when Harry licks into his mouth. These are good plans, Nick should let Harry make plans more often instead of shooing him away because that’s always a bit easier. 

“You looked so fit tonight,” says Harry, slipping to his knees once he’s managed to get Nick sat on the edge of the bed with minimal fumbling over his own feet. 

It’s a bit of an insult — Nick looks fit every night, or at least Harry should be thinking so, thanks ever so much — and he’s about to say as much until Harry fits his mouth over the head of his cock. Then it doesn’t really matter. Nick could look like a tramp every night of the week for all he cares, he’s still the one with his dick in Harry’s mouth.

He’s pretty sure he knows why Harry’s so keen on him tonight, and hazards a guess when Harry slips down a bit too quick and gags a little, fingers pressing hard into Nick’s thigh. 

“Could put the skirt back on, if you'd- ah, like.”

Nick’s never seen him go from zero to sixty in such little time. 

Harry’s always been an enthusiastic cock sucker, even that first time in Nick’s sitting room two weeks after the GQ dinner, when he knocked over a candle trying to crawl between Nick’s legs and wound up using way too much teeth. There’s still a tiny burn mark on the hardwood that Nick hasn’t ever got around to buffing out, and for months afterwards he had flashbacks of teeth and agony every time Harry went down on him. He’s come a long way since then, pushes Nick’s thighs apart and holds him there while he sucks him down, gets him deep enough to swallow around the crown of him while Nick shudders and comes, one hand buried in Harry’s hair and the other holding himself up shakily on the bed. 

“Jesus,” he says, panting. 

His elbow is threatening to give out under his increasingly heavy weight and his other hand develops a sudden tremor when he tries to loosen his grip on Harry’s dumb headscarf. Harry doesn’t seem to notice; he’s still tugging Nick off lazily and mouthing along the inside of his thigh. He bites down on what Nick can only assume must have been a particularly juicy looking bit and Nick jolts, hissing.

“You’re a menace,” Nick says, pushing at Harry’s face until he lets go. Harry licks at the mark he left and laughs when Nick makes a face. “You’re a bit nasty.”

Harry licks the come off his knuckles and grins around his fingers. _Really nasty_ , Nick thinks fondly.

 

 

 

A week later Nick finds the skirt tucked carefully away in an inconspicuous but not quite hidden corner of his wardrobe. It’s a confusing find at first because he was pretty sure Aimee had taken it along with her stockings when she left, because they were gone the next morning when he woke up at half past noon, but apparently not. Apparently there are some things Harry hasn’t spoken to him about.

Then he realizes he’s got enough ammo to take the piss for _ages_.

“Ooh, didn’t know you were into leather,” he says, swinging the skirt around in the air and shimmying towards Harry. 

“Shut up,” Harry says, wasting no time in going red as a the sole of a heel. He slouches down into the sofa like he’s getting into a mood but Nick can see the smile threatening to burst out at any moment, like he’s just the right level of embarrassed. 

When he shifts it’s so obvious he’s adjusting himself in his trousers that Nick quirks an eyebrow and looks at him, like, _really?_

“Just thought you might like to keep it, is all.”

“Oo-er, is that so?” 

He waits until Harry’s looking up at him before he peels out of his shirt, giving his best showy smirk as Harry sits up. Then he slips his arms through the piece and tugs it down over his chest, struggling a bit halfway down because apparently — and he feels a swell of pride about this — his shoulders are quite a bit more broad than his hips.

“Goddamn, get a load of me,” says Nick, smoothing his hands down his chest and checking himself out in the mirror behind Harry’s head. 

“That’s not what I had in mind,” Harry says to the nobody that’s listening.

If only Nick had on a pair of bell bottom jeans he’d look a little bit like an American teenager from the late 90’s, and it’s kind of brilliant. Leather tube tops should come back into fashion. Had they ever been in fashion? Nick will have to ask Henry, but then again maybe not; he doesn’t want to give him any crazy ideas for House of Holland winter wear. Those poor models.

“Maybe a platform shoe?” he asks while Harry groans and covers his face with a tie-dye throw pillow. “Could so do a platform, and one of them belly button rings with a chain on so it hooks round my waist. You were right, I’m keeping it.”

Speaking of— he turns to the side and sticks his gut out. “You weren’t right. I’m going to burn it and then I’m going on a diet. I’m going veg, I’m-”

Unable to finish the thought, due to a fond boy doing a poor impression of an annoyed boy pulling him down into his lap and kissing him quiet, hands squeezing his bum. It’s all very caveman. 

Later, when the skirt-shirt’s come off and so have they, he says, “So, is it a thing with you? The skirt?”

Harry’s already flushed and he can’t even be bothered to tuck his dick back in his jeans let alone try to dodge a direct question, and he just sort of shrugs. It isn’t quite the answer Nick was looking for, so he prods him in the shoulder until Harry groans and captures his wrists.

“A bit, maybe. And the heels.” He drops his head down onto the arm of the couch and digs his toes into Nick’s thigh. “Mostly just a leg thing.”

Nick can hardly blame him. He’s got great legs.

 

 

 

It takes Nick approximately forty minutes into Rita’s party before he’s trying on all the girls' heels. There was a good amount of cajolery, to be fair (although to be _completely_ fair it wasn’t needed _at all_ ). 

It’s like he’s Cinderella looking for his glass slipper, or — Nick’s not actually sure how that fairy tale goes. Maybe he’s more like Goldilocks.

This heel is too small, this heel is too narrow, but this heel is _just right_. He finds Harry nursing a cocktail at the bar with some of their friends.

“What do you think?” he asks him. 

The conversation stalls when Harry’s attention turns on him and everybody else follows, which is great, because Nick’s wearing leopard print hot pants and a pair of Lita’s that would give Jeremy Campbell war flashbacks. The pants came from Aimee’s purse, which isn’t nearly as odd as it should be, probably. 

(“Why do you have leopard print shorts in your handbag?” Nick asks, accepting the material with some amount of hesitation. Their relationship does have very few boundaries, but Nick’s not certain he’s up for wearing dirty pants.

“Because I’m civilized,” Aimee tells him, reaching over to pinch his bum between two taloned fingers. Civilized people don’t keep unwashed pants in their purses, so that’s really all the encouragement Nick needs.)

Harry looks him up and down, indulgent, like he hasn’t been checking Nick out from across the room all night already. He’s easy to keep tabs on, this Harry Styles, whether he’s halfway across a restaurant or the world. 

“About what?” Harry asks, sipping at his vodka cranberry and looking at Nick with a glint in his eye. 

The conversation picks back up around Harry but he’s still watching Nick, and because Nick’s feeling extra minx-y tonight he grabs the gross dangling at Harry’s neck, tugs him close enough that Harry goes a little wide eyed and comes off his stool. 

Only Nick can’t think of anything especially sexy to say whilst in a crowd full of people that may or may not be listening, and Harry doesn’t laugh the way he expects him to. Instead he flicks his eyes up and down again, stepping closer and settling a hand on Nick’s waist. 

A party horn goes off right next to Nick’s ear, loud and shrill, and he turns to see Rita grinning maniacally at him behind a gold metallic paper tongue. “Get a bloody room!” she shouts, tinsel flying when she bounces up to the bar from where it’s been draped all over her and braided into her hair. 

Nick almost shouts back, because it may be her Fuck Yeah I’ve Got A Number One party but those things are bloody _loud_ and he could have broken an ankle falling over in shock, thanks — but Harry grabs a hold of his elbow and gives him this look that makes him stop before he can even get the words out.

“That’s a good idea,” Harry says, tugging him along once he sets his drink atop the bar and cuts across the crowd.

They slip into the bathroom and reach for each other at the same time, Harry’s hands dipping back to grab his arse while Nick gets two fistfuls of Harry’s shirt. Nick almost gets to laugh at the lack of elegance before Harry kisses him, which is just as well. Kind of the point, he supposes, tasting tart and sweet on Harry’s tongue and cradling his arms around his neck, easy now that Harry’s that much shorter than him. One of Harry’s hands slips up the front of Nick’s shirt and he pushes into it, pushes their hips together and feels Harry moan just as much as he hears him. Probably not great, that, actually, so he nudges Harry back and moves them away from the door.

Harry reaches behind him to lock it.

“I haven’t got off in a toilet for _ages_ ,” he says, laughing when Harry pushes him back towards the sinks.

“I know,” Harry says, pressing forward, “I was there.”

Oh, right. The Brits. 

“Doesn’t count. You didn’t get me off before you had to run away and accept an award.” 

The counter is stainless steel and cold against the tops of his thighs when Harry lifts him atop it, and he wobbles a bit because it’s well hard walking forwards in a heel let alone stumbling back with a pop star attached to his chest and a hard on poking him in the hip. 

Harry’s got that face on like he’s about to argue so Nick grabs the back of his neck and kisses him, leaning back so Harry follows him half over the counter. Then he’s _right there_ , hitching Nick’s legs up and sliding between his thighs and swallowing the sudden moan that it shocks out of Nick. Who is definitely just as hard as Harry now, though the hot pants did very little to make that a missable fact in the first place, but. Now it exists in very close proximity to Harry’s dick, so he’s much more aware of it.

“Your legs look incredible,” Harry says, practically climbing up onto the counter with him. 

Nick leans forward, holding himself up with one hand and draping the other down Harry’s back. “Do they,” he asks, aloof but gently encouraging, he hopes. He really would like to hear more about how amazing they look, but Harry’s cock is right there and _his_ cock is _right there_ as well, and if they’re going to exchange bathroom handjobs it better be soon because the party has been on for three hours and people are bound to need the urinals soon. 

He wraps his legs around Harry’s waist and kisses him mid-compliment just so he’ll shut up and get on with it. Nick might not even need to exchange handjobs with the way Harry’s grinding against him and thanks to the paper-thin fabric of Aimee’s hot pants. He’ll have to get her a thank-you card. It’ll be sent by post, of course; he doesn’t want to be there when she finds out the unholy things that have transpired in her shorts.

If Harry wasn’t just out of his teenage years Nick might be more concerned that he’d be unable to get off through friction alone with jeans that tight, but when Harry pulls back for air he looks absolutely wrecked, red-faced and almost desperate with the way he snaps his hips forward.

“God, I wanna fuck you,” he says, digging his fingers into Nick’s thighs and pulling him closer to the edge.

Nick can barely swallow. “I want you to,” he says, surprising himself. Fuck, that’d be so hot. He’s pretty sure the last time he had a proper fuck in a bathroom was at a Queens of Noize gig, with a guy who Nick later found out just really wanted to meet Mairead and had seen her and Nick talking outside the club. Ages ago. Years. Harry is so much fitter — so much better at fucking.

“We can’t,” Nick says. It’s painful to admit, but Nick’s not brought any condoms with him and they used the one out of Harry’s wallet weeks ago, which he’s willing to bet Harry hasn’t bothered to replace, and even besides that, there’s no lube. They’ve fucked without them before, but Nick’s not keen on having to clean Harry’s come out of his arse while there’s people banging on the door to have a piss, let alone getting fucked without lube. 

“Why?”

“No condoms,” he says, slow and a bit bitchy since he’s frustrated. His dick is literally _right there_. “No lube, just, c’mon, Harry.”

“Fuck, fine.” He shoves his hand into Nick’s pants and pulls out his cock, bending down to take the head into his mouth quickly. Nick pushes his hand into Harry’s hair and thunks his head back on the mirror, hissing when it hurts more than he anticipated.

Harry pulls off and Nick groans, thinking he’s going to laugh or make a stupid joke, but he bites at the inside of Nick’s thigh instead and kneads at the flesh, pushing them further apart.

“Uh, Harry?” Nick’s all for having his body rightfully worshipped, but. His dick. _Right there._ “What are ya up to down there?”

“I’m very busy,” he sing-songs, “Come back later.”

Nick snorts, tugging his hair and feeling unduly affectionate for someone who’s just stopped sucking him off quick enough to give him whiplash. 

“I’d like to come _now_ , actually,” he says, smoothing Harry’s hair back from his forehead. He’s still not come up for air, so Nick groans. “If you like my thighs so much why don’t you fuck ‘em?”

Harry looks up at him, lips parted and red like he should be sucking cock, and his hands still. Nick’s hand stills as well. The moment, suddenly, becomes very suspenseful.

“Yeah,” Harry says, smirking. “Alright.”

“What?”

“I wanna fuck your thighs.”

Nick was being sarcastic. “What?”

“C’mon,” he slides in between Nick’s legs again and drags his tongue across his throat, teeth nipping when he gets right up under Nick’s ear. “I’ve wanted to fuck you like this all night, for ages, actually. It feels so good.”

It’s not the oddest request he’s gotten during sex before. He can’t imagine what he’d get out of it, but from Harry’s end at least he can see the appeal. They are fantastic thighs. “You’ve done it before, then?”

“Once or twice.” 

That’s news to Nick. He’s not jealous, Harry had a sex life before him and up until recently they were fucking other people, but. It’s news. Nick thought he knew everything already. And he’s a little pissed that Harry’s done something he hasn’t, if he’s honest.

It must show on his face because Harry grins again, tongue caught between his teeth. “Could tell you all about it,” he drags his fingers over the inside of Nick’s thighs. “Or I could show you.”

“You’re not good at this whole seducing thing,” Nick says, deadpan. It’s a bit of a lie, but then Nick has weird tastes. It’s a complete lie, actually. Harry can tell and he knows it. “Alright, baby,” he pushes at Harry’s chest and slips off the counter, heels clicking on the floor. “How do you want me?”

“Just as you are,” Harry says, gripping Nick’s hips and leaning in for a kiss. Nick snorts and bats his face away just for being an insufferable cheese ball. He laughs and bites at Nick’s shoulder, then when he looks up he’s not laughing anymore. “Turn around?”

That’s much better, so Nick does, Lita pumps planted firmly on the floor and palms planted firmly on the counter. He pulls Nick’s pants down to his ankles and Nick steps out of them, goes to spread his legs wider but Harry stops him with a hand on the small of his back.

“No,” he says, pressing his other hand against the outside of Nick’s thigh until his legs meet. “More like that.”

“Okay,” Nick says, feeling odd for being on the receiving end of instruction. It is kind of thrilling, though, having something new and being told how to do it. Harry doesn’t take charge often, but he’s good at it usually. Nick can feel his erection when he leans over to kiss the back of his neck, can feel his hand working to undo his belt and trousers, and the sound of the zip is practically Pavlovian. His mouth waters and he feels Harry’s cock nudge up against his arse and has to fight the urge to spread his legs again, though he has to a little bit, just to make room for Harry when he presses forward. 

Nick is very well acquainted with Harry’s dick. He’s had it in his hands and mouth and arse too many times to count, has felt it poking him in the back when he wakes up and pinned between their bellies when Harry’s ridden him. He knows how big he is, thick and long and impressive enough to actually warrant the ego Harry has about it and more. But feeling it between his thighs, slick with spit and pressing up against his perineum, it feels fucking massive. 

“Is that alright?” Harry asks, which should sound arrogant but from him it just sounds eager, almost polite if his voice didn’t shake at the upturn of the question.

“Yeah, it’s good,” Nick says, marking his breathing carefully. “Dry, though.”

“I can- hold on, I’ll-”

“There’s lotion,” says Nick, waving his hand vaguely in the direction of the fancy bottle sitting at the bottom of the wall-length mirror. He catches a glimpse of himself, cheeks beginning to get blotchy like they always do when he’s turned on and quiff a drooping mess, before he looks away just in time to see Harry pumping out soap into his palm.

“Wrong,” he says, sounding too loud in the floor-to-ceiling tile of the room. He laughs, breathless, dropping his head down between his shoulders. He really wants Harry back between his thighs and he has no room left for feeling exasperated and fond.

“What?” Harry asks, startled.

“Check the labels, darling- it’s the other one.”

Harry does. “Shit, okay, hold on.”

Apparently there’s a little room left for feeling exasperated and fond.

“Sorted,” Harry says, beaming at him and brandishing the handful of 40 quid per bottle hand lotion like a goddamn medal. Nick only knows it’s 40 quid per bottle because he has the same brand at home. It’s “Ultra Moisturizing!” and smells of lilacs.

It helps, though. Harry’s cock slides easily, and he slips back onto his palms and breathes, focusing on the way Harry feels between his thighs, hard and big, nudging up against his balls every time he pushes in. It’s nothing like getting fucked — it’s not so immediate, but it’s good, it’s present, like the hard slide is building him up towards something rather than pushing him. He bends over further and squeezes his thighs together, feels Harry’s hips stutter and his hands digging into the flesh of his arse.

“Fuck, you look so good,” he says, breath heavy and hot against Nick’s spine as he kisses between his shoulder blades. “You feel incredible, Nick, fuck.”

“Yeah, you too,” Nick says, pants, hanging his head and biting down hard on his lip as Harry picks up the pace. He can’t manage much more than that. It feels like it’s not going to be enough, though, just this, but he gets a hand around himself and feels that he’s dripping precome already when he starts stroking his cock.

He squeezes his thighs again on instinct and can feel it the moment that Harry loses it, when he moans low and broken and snaps his hips forward. When Nick looks down he sees the head of Harry’s cock pushing out between his legs, a spurt of come hitting his knuckles as he wanks himself faster and doubles over, mouth dropping open as he spills over his hand and onto the counter. In the aftershock Nick just sort of slouches down to his elbows, legs and arms too shaky to keep tense, and Harry slips out from between his thighs and takes up residence as a heavy, sweaty presence against his back.

 _Fucking hell_ , Nick thinks.

“Not bad,” he says.

Harry blows what sounds like it’s meant to be a laugh but became too tired to fulfill its duty on the way out of his mouth against Nick’s shoulder. “Kind of alright.”

Nick has to wriggle until Harry gets the idea to get off him, and he does so only begrudgingly, groaning like Nick’s causing him a great inconvenience when, bloody hell, Nick legs are a _mess._ He leans back against the counter and inspects the inside of his thighs, covered in expensive lotion and come which is, lucky him, exactly how he now smells.

A for experience, F for aftermath. 

“This is disgusting,” Nick says, grabbing for the nice hand towel set by the sink and wiping himself down. Apparently he’s still not quite got the hang of his motor functions again, because he drops it, and Harry rushes to pick it up but stumbles over himself and lands on his knees due to him having his trousers halfway to his ankles. Nick’s not too kind to laugh at him.

“Hey,” he frowns, or tries to, hauling himself up while Nick carries on laughing until he feels a little hysterical with it. 

He towels himself off while Harry does the same and sorts out his trousers, and it’s a pretty swift cleanup, all things considered. 

“My thighs feel like fucking silk,” he says, running his palm down to his knee. He still smells like lilac and spunk, but hopefully nobody notices the second half. He bends down a bit to sniff and wrinkles his nose; they're definitely going to notice.

“So does my dick,” Harry tells him, looking proud of the fact, for some reason Nick’s not present-minded enough to mull over. 

He finds his pants kicked under one of the stalls and struggles into them, using the partition as support while he very, very carefully steps his heels through them. “I’ve got to get these back to Brian.”

“You should keep them,” Harry says, looking at him in the mirror while he fusses with his hair.

Nick scowls. “Are you mental? Have you ever had a drag queen angry with you? I’d be dead by week’s end.”

“Get a pair of your own, then. I like them.”

“I could tell,” Nick says just as someone bangs on the door, jiggling the handle and shouting through, “Hello? Wankers, I’ve got to fucking piss!”

They’re both laughing when Harry unlocks the door and moves aside to let the person in. It’s one of Rita’s entourage, a girl Nick’s met once before, tonight, but whose name he can’t quite place.

She looks between them, expression caught somewhere between amusement and anger, Nick thinks. “This is the ladies,” she says, going a bit pitchy at the end.

“Oh, shit, sorry,” Harry says at the same time Nick scowls, smoothing down the front of his shirt. “Have you bloody seen me, love?” he asks, shoving Harry through the door and following after him. “I am a fucking lady!”

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://crucio.tumblr.com)


End file.
